


Deck the Hall

by Raikishi



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Oblivious Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 12:51:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raikishi/pseuds/Raikishi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Steve. It’s November.”<br/>“Yes Tony, very good. Now for the tricky part: what day is it?”<br/>“… I’m starting to understand why you got your ass kicked so often.”</p><p> </p><p>Gift for my STAC giftee: therubywriter who wanted Christmas decorations and fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deck the Hall

    There’s a set of Christmas decorations sitting on the kitchen table and Tony glowers at it as if it’s personally offended him. He’s pretty sure he remembers a Thanksgiving dinner yesterday; he definitely remembers fighting Thor for a turkey leg – in fact, he still has the bruise on one shoulder to prove it.

    But there’s a super-soldier at the kitchen table, studiously decorating what used to be a Thanksgiving decoration.

    “Steve. It’s November.”

    “Yes Tony, very good. Now for the tricky part: what _day_ is it?”

    “… I’m starting to understand why you got your ass kicked so often.”

    Steve grins at him from his seat at the table, unrepentant and waggles his eyebrows as he sticks a Santa hat on a giant plastic turkey in the center of the dining table. There’s Johnny Mathis being piped in through the speaker and gum drops laid out on the counter nearby.

    “So since we’ve established the fact that it _is_ still November, why all of this?” Tony asks, arms crossing as he glares down the turkey.

    “And here I thought the most successful business man in New York would appreciate Captain America succumbing to mindless consumerism,” Steve says, getting up to bat away Tony’s hand when he reaches for the Santa hat.

    “I’m taking Wikipedia away from you. It’s making you too… that,” Tony says, making a vague all-encompassing gesture.

    Steve grins wider digging in the box of decorations to draw out another Santa hat and Tony hisses at the sight, backing away. Steve turns on him, a glint of mischief in his eyes and in one lightning quick move, grabs the billionaire by a shoulder and tugs the Santa on his head.

    “See, this is a personal affront,” Tony snaps, reaching for the hat, struggling to wrestle it from Steve’s grip.

    “I distinctly recall you promising not to complain about Christmas decorations,” Steve replies calmly over his struggles, “In fact... JARVIS, if you please.”

_ <And I solemnly swear not to say a single thing against the Christmas decorations. No matter how garish and hideous.>_

    Tony groans at the playback, “JARVIS, delete that.”

_ <In fact, you can have JARVIS play this promise any time I start bitching as I solemnly swear not to delete it.>_

    Steve crosses his arms, smug and Tony swats at him, glaring.

    “December’s only three days away,” Steve points out, breaking their staring contest. He pitches his voice low, almost mournful and Tony would buy the act if he hadn’t witnessed Rogers trying to wheedle out of a holiday party weeks ago.

    He’d been all large puppy eyes and innocence as he plead his case to the Avengers’ PR person. The bastard had actually managed too and had seen the rest of them off with a cheerful and distinctly unapologetic smile as he settled in for a movie night with Bruce.

    Steve presses on, barely putting any effort into the act as he sighs exaggeratedly, “Though if you really hate them…”

    “Oh, keep your decorations,” Tony groans, shoving him, “I want first dibs on all of your baking for the entire month.”

    Steve doesn’t give an inch, barking out a laugh as he throws an arm around Tony in a quick hug. Tony leans into it for a second before pulling back, trying not to follow the line of Steve’s throat, hands clasping behind his back to keep from pulling the soldier in.

* * *

  
    Three days later Tony stumbles into the common room to find Bob Dylan being piped in through the speakers instead of one of Clint’s shitty action movies with far too many explosions.

    He opens his mouth to make a comment and runs into the enormous tree in the middle of the room. The quiver that goes through it makes the tree shudder enough for the tip to swipe at the ceiling.

    Clint cackles at him from where he’s hanging from the rafters. There are ornaments hanging from his fingers; Tony recognizes them as the ones made and sent by one of the younger fans. They were made out of Play-doh and some of the Avengers had been awkwardly shaped. Clint had cooed over them – the sap.

    “Heads up,” Barnes deadpans from where he’s curled up on the one seater.

    He’s in a giant pink sweater decorated with purple snowflakes, unravelling neon green yarn. Someone’s put tinsel on him, wrapped it around his neck like a scarf, making Tony itch just looking at him. Barnes raises an eyebrow when Tony stares at the knitting needles in his lap, as if daring him to comment.

     _Nope,_ Tony decides, shaking pine needles out of his hair as he peels himself off the tree.

    “How did you even get this thing in here?” he grumbles.

    “Thor,” comes the collective reply and he follows their fingers to where the Norse god’s sitting crosslegged on the sunken living room floor.

    Thor raises Mjölnir in greeting, showing off the garlands he’s wrapping around it. A string of popcorn lies abandoned on the floor besides him. He's still grabbing fistfuls from the bowl to shovel in his mouth though.

    Sam’s helping, one leg resting on the god’s shoulder as he works on his string, catching one in his mouth whenever Thor tosses one back over his head.

    “Don’t relax too much, you’ve got a job too,” Natasha says, bumping him when she enters the room with a tray of eggnog.

    “Spiked?” he asks, eagerly loosening his tie, “I’ve gotta tell you, four meetings with incompetent bozos. I deserve booze.”

    “After decorations,” she says, handing him a Rudolph mug, “We need you in the suit.”

    “Pretty sure that’s a grievous misuse of our abilities,” he says, following her line of sight up to where Clint’s waving cheerily at him.

    “I can bring Steve in to bat his eyes at you,” Natasha offers as she passes out nogg, making Sam and Barnes snicker.

    Tony bristles. His heart stutters in his chest and he can feel the tips of his ears burning. Clamping down on the reaction, he turns his attention to the bracelet around his wrist, deploying the latest model of the armor, “I’m offended by how easy you think I am.”

    “Are you saying I’m not pretty enough?”

    “Jesus fuck!” Tony jumps, nearly spilling his nogg as he turns around to be assaulted by the monstrosity of Steve’s sweater, “What the hell is that.”

    Steve shrugs, the four plates of cookies balanced on his arms and in his hands wobbling precariously but not toppling over.

    The lime green sweater clings to him but even the bulge of muscle wasn’t helping it along. It’s not enough that the color itself is an eyesore; there’s a hideously deformed Rudolph gracing the front, complete with orange fur and giant neon pink nose.

    Tony feels strangely compelled to find a remote in order to start fuzzing with the color, reminded of old television screens. To make matters worst, there are little dancing elves beneath the reindeer – well, either that or warped mosquitos.

    “Please throw that back in whatever hole you dug it out of,” Tony begs, claiming a plate of cookies for himself.

    “And here I thought I was pretty enough to pull anything off,” Steve sighs.

    “Not that,” Clint calls down and Tony nods in agreement.

    “Even Vita-rays can’t negate the hideousness of all of that,” Tony says, gesturing.

    “Guess you’ll have to focus on my stunning personality,” Steve hums, leaning in close.

    Warmth floods through Tony’s entire body, down to his toes as he catches a whiff of Steve’s cologne. His eyes tracks down to Steve’s mouth and he steps back immediately, trying to unstick words from his throat.

    “Boys, save the old man flirting for _after_ Christmas tree decorating,” Natasha interrupts, forcing an armful of tinsel into Steve’s hands.

    “So are we boys or old men?” Steve asks, thankfully unperturbed by the implications.

    He glances at Tony sideways, smirking before he tosses the armful on Tony’s head.

    “Ugh,” Tony mutters, sputtering as he spits tinsel out of his mouth.

    “Barnes’ got one with your name on it in the works,” Sam pipes in, dusting off popcorn kernels as he rises. He squints over at Barnes, “I said green. Not neon.”

    “ ‘s neon green,” Barnes shrugs, picking up his needles, “Stark, you’re getting pink.”

    “Red and gold,” Tony tries to shout, voice muffled by the elf cookie he’s stuffed in his mouth, ignoring the tinsel scarf he’s still wearing.

    “I choose to hear pink and smoker’s teeth yellow,” Barnes smirks at him.

    “Steve, control your raccoon,” Tony complains, interrupted by the whine of the armor as it unfolds besides him.

    Stretching out his arms, he steps inside, huffing when Steve takes the cookies from him, replacing it with the end of one of the lights.

    “I thought you just wanted me to put up the star or something.”

    “That comes last,” Steve says, grinning, “And it’s not going to be a star.”

    “You didn’t honestly think that was going to be the extent of your duties did you?” Natasha asks mildly and Tony groans, recognizing that look of sadistic delight beneath the impassive facade.

    Eight hours later and enough Bob Dylan for Tony to rip his hair out had Steve not been steadily plying him with nogg and gingerbread cookies, they’re finally done. Tony flies Clint down from the rafters and collapses over a couch, still in the armor.

    “One more thing,” Natasha says, dropping a UPS box on his chest. The sadist.

    She smirks at him, as if reading his thoughts, “Then I’ll break out the vodka. My vodka.”

    “I’m ever at your service,” Tony says immediately.

    He digs into the box, heart stopping when he pulls out the old arc reactor. There’s a card from Pepper inside.

     _Steve’s idea,_ it says inside and he can feel her smirk.

    Tony glances up, catches sight of Steve frozen in place, blue eyes wide as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. The soldier shuffles uncertainly for a moment before straightening, lifting his chin defiantly.

    “You brought us all here,” he says, “You should be the star at the top.”

    Sam cackles, “You should put that on a Christmas card.”

    Steve huffs, stance loosening as he tosses stray bits of popcorn at Sam.

    “Well obviously, I’m the star in every room,” Tony says flippantly. He can do flippant, he’s always been most comfortable with it.

     Tony zips upwards, ignoring their groans.

    “You’re going to give him an even bigger head now,” he hears Clint say but Steve’s staring up at Tony, smile planted firmly on his lips.

    Tony stays in the air for a moment, unsure how to deal with the sudden block in his throat and the quick unsteady flutter in his chest. Without thinking, he snaps a shot of Steve’s face, smiling at him, the look in his eyes giving Tony more hope than he should have.

* * *

  
    “We’ve already done the tree, what more is there?” Tony huffs, buried in the hideously pink sweater Barnes had forced over his head.

    At least it’s warm.  

    Steve tugs him into the kitchen, shouldering a giant wreath and about twenty garlands.

    “We’ve still got the walls and everything,” Steve says, looping a garland over Tony’s neck and tugging gently.

    Tony squeaks, finding himself nose to nose with the super soldier. This close, he can feel Steve’s breath against his cheek, minty from candy canes.

    “Dim your headlights!” Sam calls when he enters the room, “Children in tow.”

    Immediately Tony shoves away from the soldier, backpedaling furiously. He wrestles at the garland still around his neck, having yanked it out of Steve’s grip. The soldier blinks owlishly at him, stunned for a moment before it shifts into something else, almost calculating.

    Clint follows on Sam’s heels, scowling, “I don’t need this from someone who squeals over candy canes.”

    “Man, I saw you nearly jumping up and down over peeps. At least candy canes are minty heaven.”

    “Friends, I have located this ‘kissing fungus’,” Thor exclaims before Clint can retort. He sweeps in the room covered in stray bits of tinsel that float down around him when he hefts the two boxes under his arms up proudly.

    “Mistletoe,” Sam corrects, elbowing Clint hard when he snickers, “And way to prove the point.”

    “That’s a little too much isn’t it?” Tony asks, voice high in the back of his throat.

    He really doesn’t need a little voice trying to convince him he might be able to corner Steve under the plant.

    “Tis the season,” Steve says quietly, picking through the boxes.

    “You don’t need Iron Man for this,” Tony points out, already in retreat mode but Steve grabs for his wrists.

    “We’re hanging garlands outside too. On the launch pad.”

    From the corner of his eye Tony spies Sam smirking at them, barely hiding it behind a mug.

* * *

  
    “Alright you slave driver,” Tony sighs when he finally finishes, “All done.”

    He drops onto the launch pad, dropping off the extra mistletoe back in their box. They had wound up under it exactly twice and each time Tony had taken off with an armful of decorations, swearing under his breath with Steve staring after him.

    Steve looks upwards, taking in the neatly hung garlands and smiles, proud. It’s dangerous, that smile and Tony grunts resists the urge to step forward and grab him by the waist.

    “It looks great,” Steve says, slinging an arm over Tony’s shoulder. Apparently he has nothing against getting close to Tony. Steve steps onto a boot, holding fast as he leans in, face far too close to Tony for his heart to work properly, “Take me for a ride?”

    “Don’t you need more than a sweater?”

    “You just don’t appreciate Bucky’s handiwork,” Steve laments, tugging at the off blue one he’s wearing today. Santa’s face is purple, as if he’s been holding his breath for too long and he’s wearing Rudolph’s nose for some reason, “And after he put all his love into yours.”

    Tony groans, taking off into the sky, “I’m wearing the damn thing aren’t I?”

    Steve chuckles, the sound stuttering when Tony slows abruptly. They pull back from the tower, just enough to see their handiwork and besides him, Steve’s breath hitches.

    “Now all we need is snow,” Tony murmurs, “Think we can bribe Thor with liquor?”

    “I’m not sure he’s in charge of that.”

    “I thought he was all rain and thunder. Make it cold enough and bam! Snow.”

    Steve snorts, squirming until Tony yelps, rearranges his grip to keep him from falling.

    “Please keep hands and feet inside the ride at all times,” Tony says, trying to stave off the heart attack.

     _He has ridiculously long eyelashes_ , Tony think helplessly.

    He tilts his head without thinking, as if leaning in for a kiss and readjusts his hands, holding fast around Steve’s waist. The soldier smiles, cheeks flushed by the cold.

    “I think you’ll forgive me this time,” Steve says, one arm lifting up.

    Tony lifts his eyes, catching a glimpse of the sprig of mistletoe hanging from Steve’s hand.

    “Oh,” he manages, voice high.

    Steve grins, leaning in to press his lips against the faceplate before he can think.

    “I wasn’t that obvious was I?”

    Steve smiles, cheeks reddening and definitely not from the cold.

    “I may have been planning out the Christmas decorations just so I can put mistletoe everywhere,” he admits, arms coming around Tony’s neck as he knocks his forehead against the faceplate.

    “It was getting a bit distressing when you ran off every time though.”

    “Um…”

    “And truthfully with all the staring you do in my general direction, I thought you’d be the one making a move though. Lord knows I've given you plenty of opportunities.”

    “Um…”

    Steve tilts his head, thumb stroking gently over the catch for the faceplate, “A fella can only wait so long.”

    “I may have misread the situation,” Tony says, trying to hide the giddiness in his voice.

    “You can lift the faceplate and make it up to me,” Steve suggests, grinning shamelessly.

    “I can tear that sweater off you and make it up to you in a different way,” Tony says, faceplate coming up so he can waggle his eyebrows.

    Steve’s laughter rings in his ears as the soldier tucks the spring of mistletoe where the helmet and faceplate connects before leaning in.  
      
   


End file.
